


I'm Coming Out

by roane



Series: Out: A Play in Three Acts (Soundtrack Provided by Miss Diana Ross) [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coming Out, Flirting, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony can't fix the building Steve and Bucky broke, but he can try to fix other things. By throwing a big party, Tony Stark-style. Meanwhile, Sam is able to help repair other damage. (Part three of a three-part series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Coming Out

The first thing Sam has to explain to Steve is that a ‘coming out’ party means something very different now than it did in the 1940s.

Steve grins as he throws punches into a heavy bag that Sam is pretty sure he couldn’t even stand to hit. He’s doing well to hang on as a spotter. “So you’re saying I don’t have to wear a white dress and gloves?”

“Well…” Sam drawls, “I mean, nobody’s gonna judge you, man.”

“I still can’t believe I let you and Natasha talk me into this.”

By ‘me’, Sam knows he really means ‘us’. Very few people around the Tower have had a chance to meet Bucky yet, but everybody knows he’s there. Sam met him for a whole five minutes when he went by Steve’s room to drop off a mission report. Well, ‘met’ probably isn’t the right word, considering that they _met_ when Bucky ripped the steering wheel out of his hands (and out of the car) going seventy miles per hour.

Then again, that’s when Sam met the Winter Soldier. So maybe those five minutes in Steve’s room really were when he met Bucky for the first time. He’s not talking much yet. At least not to anybody but Steve.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Stark just _thinks_ he’s throwing a party that’s going to be one big gay joke. Pepper’s been vetoing plans behind his back.”

Steve frowns, and his punches get harder. “It’s not right, though.”

Sam has seen this before, not just with Steve, but with other vets. Something beneath the surface is eating at him, and all Sam can do is wait to see if he spills it now or later.

“I’m not gay,” Steve says. “I mean, not if I understand it right.”

It’s probably inevitable that he’d have a sexual identity crisis eventually, Sam thinks. Man from his time, it can’t be easy to accept something about yourself that was so unacceptable then.

“I was in love with a woman.” Steve stops punching for a moment to catch his breath. “Still think they’re pretty.”

Sam steels himself to try and explain human sexuality. He really should have prepped for this.

“So, that doesn’t mean gay,” Steve continues. “Do people not know what ‘bisexual’ means?” Before Sam can lower his eyebrows and formulate an answer, Steve continues. “Besides, it doesn’t seem fair. People have died for the right to love who they wanted to love, you know? It’s not right for me to just step in and say I’m the same as them, when I didn’t have to fight.”

“You… You’ve been doing your homework,” Sam says.

“I read about Stonewall,” Steve says, and Sam’s eyebrows climb even higher. “I grew up around those folks. They had a cause. I just have a best friend that I care about.”

“Wait. Wait.” Sam slaps his hands on the bag Steve’s punching. “You read about _Stonewall_ and you needed me to explain a coming out party?”

Steve leans around the heavy bag and grins.

“You sly son of a bitch,” Sam laughs.

“Wanted to see what you’d say.” He steps back and starts unwrapping his hands in quick, efficient motions.

“How’s he doing?” Sam says, after a moment.

Steve shrugs. “Some days are better than others. You know how it goes.”

Sam only does on a theoretical level. He can talk all he wants about what people bring back with them from war, the weight that someone like Bucky must be carrying is beyond his comprehension.

 

The day before the party, Sam goes into the same gym to find Bucky in there alone. He’s working through a set of one-armed chin ups (the non-robot arm), and Sam catches himself wondering what that must be like, to have one side so much more powerful than the other. He’s worked with amputees at the VA who’ve struggled with just that, learning to use a prosthesis, but nothing on this level.

If he’d passed Bucky on the street, Sam isn’t sure he would have recognized him as the same man behind the Winter Soldier’s mask. He hasn’t cut his hair short yet, but he’s keeping it tied back neatly out of his eyes, and he’s lost the hollow look to his eyes and cheeks. He doesn’t say anything to Sam, doesn’t acknowledge him in any way, but moves to one of the weight machines.

“Hey, uh,” Sam’s voice seems unnaturally loud as he starts up the treadmill, “if you need a spotter, man, let me know.”

“I don’t.”

All right, then. Sam’s not going to push it. He cranks up the treadmill and starts running. It’s not the same as a run through the park, but things being what they are since the collapse of SHIELD, this is safer.

His body carrying him along to nowhere, sweat starting to pour and his muscles starting to stretch and warm, he zones out.

Which is why he damn near falls off the treadmill when he realizes Bucky is standing next to him. He grabs the safety bar and stops the machine.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, and although he sounds a little surly, Sam spots a little bit of amusement hiding back there.

“No problem. Anybody ever tell you you’re good at stealthy stuff? You could make it a career.”

That _does_ earn him a hint of a visible smile, just around the eyes. “Heard it once or twice.” He pauses. “I, uh, wanted to… apologize. For your wingpack.”

Sam knows the sound of a door creaking open when he hears one. “We stole it anyway, so I guess it wasn’t really mine.” He wipes away some sweat from his forehead with his t-shirt. “Anyway, Stark says he’s gonna replace it with a better one.”

“He just loves to hand out prizes, huh?” He sounds bitter enough that Sam wonders what’s behind it.

“He’s a giving kind of guy all right.” He considers his next words carefully. “He’s supposed to be a genius with tech though, so if you start having problems--”

“No.” There’s the sound of a door starting to swing shut. Damn it. “It’s fine.”

Now, Sam’s got only a rudimentary knowledge about these things--just enough to do some light field repairs on his pack if he needed to--but even he knows better. The metal is beat to hell and he can hear things creaking and groaning whenever Bucky moves. “Suit yourself. Bet Steve could borrow some tools if you’d rather do it on your own. You know, when you need to.”

“Thanks.”

It’s like wrestling with a stone wall. Bucky’s not giving him any opening. Steve had been the same way, come to think of it. “I’m glad he found you,” Sam finally says. “Dude was wearing himself out worrying.” From the look on Bucky’s face, Sam wonders if _anybody_ has said they’re glad he’s around. “I guess you guys got used to looking out for each other, huh?”

“Yeah.” Bucky shifts his weight, looks away. “Guess I probably owe you for that too. I would’ve killed him if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“Wasn’t you.” Sam dismisses it. “Besides, I was just filling in till you got back.”

“I don’t think he needs anybody looking out for him now.”

Sam laughs, honest to god he doesn’t mean to, but it bursts out, and Bucky gives him a startled, slightly hurt look. “Have you _seen_ what he does now? Throwing himself off buildings, taking on the world? Between me and you, I’m not sure the both of us together would be enough.”

Bucky tilts his head and squints at him, and Sam finally sees a crack in the wall. “Not with the way you fight, no. You got lucky.”

“You think so, old man?” Sam grins and goes with it.

“I think so.” He’s standing more relaxed, a little bit of attitude showing up in his stance.

Sam throws down the gauntlet. “Well if you want help covering his ass I guess you better start teaching me some of those badass moves, huh?”

Bucky sniffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Maybe. You might be beyond help.”

 

Sam got to the ballroom about half an hour early--a little too late to get roped into major set up, but early enough to be able to make the offer. He finds Tony and Pepper arguing not far from the DJ set up. “This is not the waitstaff I hired!” Tony says, indicating the sharp-dressed men and women standing with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres against one wall.

“No, it’s the waitstaff I hired after I fired your waitstaff,” Pepper says.

“What? Pepper, they were perfect!”

“No, what they were were male exotic dancers. Nobody wants to take food from a sweaty, shirtless man, Tony.” She catches sight of Sam and comes over, kissing him on the cheek. “You look dashing,” she says.

Sam’s a little in awe of Pepper, but everybody else seems to be too, so he fits right in. She’s the one person who’s been utterly unfazed by everything that’s happened, jumping right into taking in former SHIELD agents who need help, helping wrangle the worst of the PR disasters.

“I was gonna see if Tony needed any help,” he says, “but you seem to have him under control.”

“I always do.” She smiles. “Have fun tonight.” And then she’s off.

The room gets crowded, but there’s no sign of Steve or Bucky. Sam finds that he recognizes most of the other people, a few from his limited contact with SHIELD, others from around the Tower in general. Maria Hill is chatting with the kid who let them into the Triskelion--Sam almost misses her since she’s not in uniform.

Soon people are dancing to a mix of old-school disco and club-friendly pop. Clint’s out there, surrounded by some adoring fans from the looks of it. Sam stays on the sidelines and watches, grinning as Pepper tries to lure Bruce Banner on to the dance floor. He seems like a nice guy, but he still makes Sam a little nervous. There’s no sign of Thor, which is good, because Sam’s not sure he’s ready to deal with part of a pantheon yet.

Around the room there are videos projected on various screens. There’s old World War II footage of Steve and Bucky, alternately grinning at each other and wearing their soldier faces, music videos, and lots--LOTS--of gay-themed movie clips. It all seems a little over-the-top. Sam shudders to think what else Pepper might’ve vetoed aside from the waitstaff.

Finally the music dies down and a spotlight swings over to the entrance. The door slides open to reveal Steve and Bucky, both spit-shined and movie-star handsome. By now Sam’s betting Bucky isn’t going to cut his hair at all, and wonders whose idea that was. New music blasts from the speakers: “I’M! COMING! OUT!” followed by an iconic kick of horns, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or take cover.

Bucky starts to back out, but Steve catches him by the arm, throws a glare in Tony’s direction before leaning in and whispering something to Bucky. Bucky nods, then slides one hand around the back of Steve’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss intense enough that Sam looks away. feeling like an intruder.

The crowd, predictably, goes wild, and Steve gives them his most dazzling Captain America smile as people rush in to greet them both.

“They look good,” a familiar voice murmurs, and Sam finds Natasha at his elbow.

“So do you,” he says before he can stop himself. She does though, in shimmering midnight blue. _Smooth, Wilson, she could probably kill you with her left eyebrow._

She doesn’t kill him, but just smiles and takes his arm, redirecting his attention to the room. “Too bad about the turn out though.”

“Are you kidding? There’s got to be at least three hundred people here.” He lets her lead him through the crowd, but he snags two flutes of champagne from one of Pepper’s waiters and hands one to her.

“Tony invited more than twice that.” She takes a sip, watching him closely. “Some people are having doubts about just letting things go with Barnes. They say he’s still dangerous, and even if he’s not, he has a lot to pay for--that he deserves a cell, not a party.”

“You don’t, though,” he says carefully.

“I know a little something about being _non compos mentis_ ,” she shrugs. “I can tell you what the next step is though.”

They’re about halfway across the room to Steve and Bucky, waiting in what’s essentially turned into a receiving line. Natasha glances up at Sam and smiles. “Tony’s going to get them to be grand marshalls for the next Pride parade he can track down, watch.”

Sam shakes his head. “That’s going to get old fast.”

“No, but it’s brilliant.” She leans in to speak quieter. “Do you think it’s an accident that Stark’s practically a parody of himself at times? The more outrageous he is, the more he gets away with, because people stop paying attention to what he’s _actually_ doing.”

“You think he’s--”

“He’s going to make people see Rogers and Barnes as the Avengers’ adorable gay mascots, and in six months, everybody will have forgotten Barnes was ever the Winter Soldier.”

They’re closer to the aforementioned-pair now, and this conversation will have to end soon. “I can’t see either of them going along with it,” he says.

“Steve already is,” Natasha says. “He doesn’t like to kiss in public.”

“How do you--never mind, that’s none of my business.”

“We had a lot of time to talk,” is all she says.

“Sam!” Steve calls, as they get close, and he leads Natasha over to greet the pair.

 

Sam supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when things play out exactly the way Natasha predicted. The same people on Capitol Hill who were screaming in outrage at SHIELD’s collapse and demanding accountability, the same people who demanded to know who the Nazi-Soviet-terrorist killer in Avengers Tower was, were now utterly aghast to see Captain Steven G. Rogers--Captain _America_ for god’s sake!--doing interviews in _Out_ about what it meant to be bisexual and letting _People_ do a lavish cover story about the tragic love story that spanned nearly a century, complete with cozy photo shoots of Steve and Bucky: curled up together on a couch reading, out for a run (in matching U.S. Army t-shirts), sitting together and smiling at the camera.

It’s not as much of a shock to see Bucky smiling these days. That probably has more to do with Steve than anyone else, but Sam has it on good authority (from Bucky himself) that the therapist Stark managed to round up is doing a remarkably level-headed job coping with Bucky’s unique set of issues. (Although not _that_ unique, as apparently he and Clint and Natasha have had some conversations about Doing Things While Brainwashed, and obviously Steve has some perspective on the issue of Help, My Watch Says It’s 1944.)

Friday nights are still a fairly regular thing. Sometimes they’re more crowded than others. Sometimes they end up watching movies in the Tower’s massive home theatre. Usually Bucky and Steve initiate that--they have a lot of pop culture to catch up on. There’s no sign of either of them when Sam wanders in though. “Where’s Steve?”

Natasha lifts her feet from the couch so he can sit down, then plants her feet on him again. “No sign of either of them all day, actually. That’s odd.”

“I am not going looking for them again,” Clint says. “I don’t care if they wreck _this_ building.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at Sam, who shrugs. “I’ll go with you, if you’re worried.”

She rolls off the couch in a boneless, graceful movement and Sam stands behind her.

“I’m telling you,” Clint says, “you don’t want to know.”

They’re halfway down a hall roughly the length of a city block when Natasha stops so suddenly he runs into her. Before he can react, she spins around and crowds him into an alcove.

“What--”

“I know where they are,” she says, her eyes hooded. “Might be more fun to get lost than to go looking for them.”

Sam grins as her meaning sinks in. “I have a terrible sense of direction. It’s shocking, really. I should be ashamed.”

She hooks one finger in his collar and starts pulling him behind her. “I’m sure you haven’t done anything to be ashamed of. Yet.”

He laughs and wonders when this became his life as he lets her drag him off. “Just give me time. I will.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”


End file.
